Then

When my youngest son One was born, he had a 104 degree fever. He spent 10 days in the NICU, while they did every test imaginable, but they never figured out why.

One came home with a pulse oximeter. He had to wear it every time he slept, because he had random and unpredictable oxygen desaturations. We only had to use it for a month, but again: doctors never figured out why this happened.

When he was six weeks old, I noticed a smaller-than-pea-sized lump on the back of his neck. By the time otolaryngology wheeled him back to the OR for a biopsy a few weeks later, it had grown to the size of a tangerine. They diagnosed him with nonrhabdomyosarcoma, not differentiated: cancer. Pathologists had never seen his kind of tumor cells before, which isn’t something you want to hear about your newborn.

Surgeons removed his tumor over Easter break. In the ICU, doctors realized that he had no blood flow through his right vertebral artery, which supplies blood to the brain. Doctors still don’t know why. There was no clot. There is no damage.

Because his surgeons couldn’t remove a 1 cm margin of healthy tissue around his tumor – this is very hard to achieve on the head and neck – the pediatric oncologist recommended a 43 week course of chemotherapy. This would destroy any remaining cancer cells in the area around the tumor and prevent tumor recurrence.

So my three month old son started chemo. Because he was the youngest patient on the floor, he quickly became a nurse favorite. We’d return to the unit after grabbing lunch and find him sitting in a high chair, holding court at the nurses’ station. In the hospital room, he learned to love TV, to stand holding onto the metal bars of his cage-top crib. I learned to nurse an infant hooked up to IV drugs while I studied for the MCAT. I scheduled play dates for our older son with a toddler battling leukemia on the ward. We taught the daycare teachers how to clamp off my baby’s port in case the tubing snapped off.

My son’s hair fell out. He threw up ten times a day. He got taller but never gained any weight. I made him a half birthday cake and we had a small party the day he turned six months old. We weren’t sure if we’d ever get to celebrate a birthday with him otherwise. But in February, just after his first birthday, he finished his last round of chemo. He rang the victory bell and we got so excited about our new freedom to take our immunocompromised kid in public. A month later, coronavirus appeared in the United States, and we’ve been back in the house ever since.

Now

Throughout all of this, my son – no longer called “One” here, but “Two” – has been a smiling, bald-headed handful of joy. He already reminds me of his namesake, a Black icon who knew that being nice and quiet meant you stayed hungry. On his best and worst days, he is a tiny dynamo, a whirlwind of activity, feelings, new information and an insatiable desire to share all three with everyone he meets.

Two is snuggly to a fault. He knows his alphabet and days of the week; he can count to twenty. He’s silly and hates when people are sad or hurt. Two loves: hats, sunglasses, Pocoyo, “Tootie Monsay” (Cookie Monster), basketballs, buses, Sandra Boynton books, hide and seek, shouting the word “fuck” (thanks, darling husband) and his belly button. His hair has grown back a strawberry blond color that glows gold in sunlight, so light you can’t see it in photos. He has the squishiest, most kissable cheeks I’ve ever seen.

So to my beloved and newly minted Two: I love you. I can’t wait to see where this new year takes you. May the brightest days of your past be the darkest days of your future.

Tierra

A malcontent with a heart of gold, Tierra is a first-year medical student, former high school teacher and history PhD candidate, plus mom to four of Bebe’s baddest kids. She curses a lot. Tierra is a DC native but lives in southwest Michigan and will happily exchange writing (hers) for cash (yours).